A Hundred Years of War
by anja-chan
Summary: There is no elegance in this war, only France's burning desire to crush England. The French throne is seemingly up for grabs, and as the stakes get higher with every death, only history will tell which country will emerge victorious. [Historically accurate except for, you know, the insertion of countries as people. And some implied yaoi.]
1. Chapitre 1

A Hundred Years of War

Chapitre 1

* * *

It was 1325 and Charles IV had asked to see me. I had been in Orléans, watching the _Cathédrale Sainte-Croix_ being finished. The stonemasons had even let me help with some, and we drank and joked together. I told the younger workers about the mishaps I had witnessed during the laying of the foundation stones, and they filled me in on the more recent hardships of their work. I cherished being among my people more than I liked visiting the king, and so it was with weary resignation that I saddled my horse and rode north to Paris through the winter air.

It was late evening the following day when I dismounted in front of the _Palais de la Cité_, and handed my horse to a valet. The lad recognized me, but with the awkward unnamed status of my position, he seemed caught somewhere between a formal bow and an awed salute. Used to this uncertainty, I flashed him a bright smile to let him know his behavior was fine, and stepped inside the palace.

I knew Charles IV would find it unbecoming of my etiquette if I were to eat before announcing my arrival, so I went straight to his rooms. A servant directed me to a washbowl to freshen up after my travels, while he reported me to King Charles. Within moments, he returned.

"His Majesty is expecting you. Please see him in his study." The man gestured towards the next door, but as familiar with the palace as I was, I had already begun walking.

I strode in, and two heads turned to look at me. King Charles IV the Fair was sitting, straight-backed and firm, in a wooden chair. His uncle, Charles of Valois was sitting opposite him. He looked pale and older than I had remembered, long lines etched deeply into his face. His expression was unreadable, and I felt a sudden sinking feeling in my gut.

"My king," I said, dropping into an obeisance.

"You may stand," the king responded regally, "and come closer, François."*

He was the type of king who preferred using my given name, and I found it distasteful. As a rule, the monarchy (and as such, most of the nobility over time) knew me and my human name; however, it sounded condescending from those who I hadn't expressly asked to call me such. I had not asked either of these Charles to do so, and indeed, it had been some time since a French King had been given that permission. The last few, Charles' older brothers, had all passed in such quick succession.

Still, he was nominally the King of me, so I said nothing and rose. A beautiful mahogany desk rested squarely between the three of us, some letters and forms on its surface. I watched the younger Charles, wondering if the color and cut of his hair had anything to do with mine. He returned my gaze and cleared his throat.

"Since you don't seem to be much interested in the affairs of the state, I can only guess what you know about the recent English insults." He paused, and I could see he was waiting for my reply. Charles of Valois looked down at the papers on the desk as if I were of no concern to him.

I schooled my voice carefully, trying not to let my irritation show. "I'm afraid the King misunderstands my interest in the 'affairs of the state' because if he remembers correctly, _I _am the state." I sighed, suddenly weary. "England wants Guyenne back. And Gascony. Isabella is still here with her son, the young English prince, who has paid homage to us in return for those southwest territories which you have not yet given to him. If you're looking for my opinion, it seems like a nice peace offering for the moment, but as long as England feels like he has political control over parts of me, he won't want to let it go. I might also point out that you don't have a son, and none of your daughters can inherit. It might not be your problem as of now, but it will surely be mine in the future."

The king's eyes narrowed. "It is my problem now, which is why I've called you here. I don't want Aquitaine to be in Edward's hands. Isabella plans to stay here in France, and she can still control the boy, but his father is another matter. He thinks England is stronger than us, and Charles tells me they're planning all-out war. We need to be prepared, and you're the only one I can spare at the moment, François."

I saw Charles of Valois' strained smile. The man had always had the ear of the king even if he wasn't particularly well-suited to be an advisor. While he had just returned victorious from _Saint-Sardos, _where he had retaken Aquitaine from the unruly English, I didn't like him. He was always leering at me and it was no secret that he wanted to possess me. In what form was unclear, so I always avoided being alone with him.

I returned my attention to Charles the Fair—if he wasn't so stiff and full of being King, he had a face I could adore—and the task at hand. "What are you asking me to do?

"I'm not asking, François. I am your king and it is imperative that you formally renew the _Vielle_ _Alliance_ with Scotland. With England preparing more insubordination, we want them to realize they'll be cornered from the south _and_ north. I don't care if you go to them or have them come to you."

I paused, considering the proposal before I agreed. King he may be, but I wasn't a human diplomat he could order around despite what he thought of me. We countries hardly ever signed treaties ourselves, although we were generally bound by them. Of course, we usually endorsed, agreed, and liked them. Scotland was no exception; in fact, I greatly enjoyed his personal company. And it was only a renewal of terms, nothing new….

"_Tu es le capitaine, Charles_," I replied, using the informal style and king's name in the same way he used mine: unasked, "and I am your vessel. I'll take care of it."

Without being dismissed, I left the room, the sound of harrumphs and gasps of my etiquette breach left in my wake.

* * *

_14 Décembre 1325_

_Mon cher Écosse,_

_Congratulations on regaining your independence. I am very happy for you, and have the deepest empathy for those problems with England. He is very desperate still to have part of me for himself and is really quite a horrible creature at the moment. I am very glad that you were able to restrain him and give him a good beating last year. He is so grabby, with no manners, for which I am blaming Denmark's awful and crude influence. No amount of my influence seems to reach his thick skull._

_As we continue to have so much in common against our in-between-neighbor and I haven't had the pleasure of seeing you since the Treaty of Paris, my king has proposed a renewal of our Vielle Alliance, or as you so affectionately call our '_Auld Alliance.' _Perhaps once winter ends, the seas will be smooth enough for a safe crossing and you could come (with a capable human diplomat if necessary) and I will give you French comforts after a cold winter. Paris is always so lovely in the spring, and it has been so long since I have played the host for you. A formal resigning will also take place, and I have my king's approval to be a legitimate signer for the treaty._

_This letter travels with my fondest desires that it will find you still safe and comfortable._

_Amicalement et au plaisir de vous revoir,_

_France_

* * *

_3 January 1326_

_Ma fere Fraunce,_

_Thank you for your letter, and my condolences for the continued English threat. I have relayed your sentiments to my king, Robert Brus, and he is very thrilled to renew the alliance, and I am as well. I will be travelling with one Thomas Randolph, the first Earl of Moray, who will be signing, as well as his retinue. Though the party is small, my king wishes you and yours to know that he sees the Auld Alliance with great importance._

_Now that the latest war is over and the English trounced, I would be very happy to take some time to see your beautiful land and cities this spring. I hope we will not miss much if I arrive in April, or perhaps as late as the first of May. I have missed you, so seeing you again would be wonderful. I remember Paris fondly and am looking forward to having a repeat experience._

_If you should ever need anything, it is my hope that you would ask for my help! I, too, take our alliance seriously._

_Yours aye,_

_Scotland_

* * *

All preparations had been made and formalities wouldn't begin until the next morning, but my own anticipation was high for the evening. Scotland would be arriving, and besides soul-rending clashes with England and the cold shoulder from Germany, I had not had the company of another country for a long time.

To my delight, Charles had agreed to my getting a new outfit for the occasion and had it paid from the Treasury. I had had to be measured as tight-fitting clothes were becoming more fashionable, but I was happily wearing the result: pointed leather shoes, bright red hose, and a brilliantly blue doublet with gold embroidery that fell just to my knees. I even had a wide, low-slung and embossed belt. The only item I had declined was the strange hat that the tailor had insisted was the epitome of fashion. I seemed to be the only one who knew it was really a hood being worn incorrectly. My only jewelry was a ring Philip II had given me during the Third Crusade, delicate silver with a fleur-de-lis.

It was with such splendor that I received Scotland.

The doors opened and he swept in. Scotland was dashing in a plaid kilt and with his red hair tousled from the city breeze. The wind blew in around him, as if ushering his wild northern ways into my serene and luxurious walls.

"Scotland," I said breathlessly, moving to the door to greet him. A smile broke across my face, unbidden. "Thank you so much for coming!"

He clasped both my hands in return, a grin splitting his face. "It's grand to be here." Without further ado, he wrapped me in a giant bear hug. Shocked, I must have stiffened, because he pulled himself back a moment, as if remembering something. "Like this?" he asked, gently kissing each of my cheeks in turn.

I tried not to blush. From Scotland, the regular greeting seemed quite… intimate. "Euh, yes, that will do." I kissed him in return, and noticed over his shoulder that more guests were arriving.

Scotland followed my gaze. "Yea, let me introduce you to my Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray. He's a bit of a wily one sometimes, but a fearsome knight who has knocked down castles and won his way fairly to his peerage. He'll be doing the signing this time around for us. Lord Thomas, this is France. "

I moved forward to greet the earl. He was a broad-shouldered man roughly my height. He wore a closely trimmed beard of dark hair although the hair around his temples was fading to grey. He was clothed sensibly in a soft, long tunic and a matching hood; both were of high quality if lacking in embellishments.

We kissed each other's cheeks and for a Scotsman, he seemed well versed in the continental style of greeting. I surmised this was not his first trip overseas.

"_Bienvenue à Paris_," I entreated, slipping back into my role of host. "If you please, the porters will take your things from your carriage and bring them to your rooms. I can show you up to them now, as I'm sure after such a long journey, you would be delighted to freshen up. The evening meal will be served at the eighth hour, so there should be plenty of time to relax and settle in as you wish before then. If you'll both follow me…."

They complied easily, Scotland barely a step behind my left elbow with Thomas Randolph a few feet back with more decorum. I led them up a grand staircase, slowing imperceptibly so the grandeur of my city's mansions would impress them. Gold-gilded embellishments glinted from the railings, and a rich tapestry of my Charlemagne being crowned Emperor by the Pope graced the center of the wall as we reached the top of the staircase. I turned to my left and stopped at the first door, opening it and stepping aside.

"For Lord Randolph," I intoned. A cheery fire, warming the room delightfully, lighted the interior. It smelled of fresh straw and lilies, the former plumping the bed and the latter arranged into an artful swell near a washbasin and pitcher. "If you are requiring anything, please give the cord in the corner a pull. It rings a bell in the servants quarters below and someone will be up immediately to assist you."

The man's eyes widened as if this were an incredible novelty. I tried not to smirk, and continued. "There is a private bath adjacent to your room as well. You need only ring to have it filled. Please enjoy yourself and I'll see you at this evening's meal."

I pulled the door closed behind me as I exited smoothly. Scotland was waiting patiently in the hallway. "It's a cozy place you've got, France."

"Oh? Does this mean you're impressed?" I asked, feeling somehow both more relaxed and excited without a foreign human around. I began to walk towards the other end of the hallway, crossing the top of the staircase again. "Would you care to see what I have arranged for _you_?"

Scotland laughed, a big booming sound for a moment, before he caught himself and hushed. The walls sucked away the sound almost instantly, but the laugh was still apparent in his smile. His green eyes sparkled, and my stomach churned in a not unpleasant way.

"If it's even a fraction of what Thomas has, then it'll surely be too much for me," Scotland retorted, as he crossed to me. "I can barely concentrate what with all the golden walls and your bright red leggings as it is."

I stifled an undignified snort. "You like my leggings?" I stretched out a scarlet leg in front of him enticingly. "It's apparently all sorts of fashionable. Charles' tailor was very insistent." I pointed my toe, the length of the shoe's tip making my leg seem almost impossibly long.

Scotland stared for a moment, caught in my trap. His eyes traveled slowly up from my shoe to my calf to my knee to my… I pulled my leg down quickly, and turned away to open the door behind me. I didn't look back as I entered and spoke. "And this will be for you, _Écosse_."

I felt him walk in behind me, and despite the elegance of the room I had prepared for my northern friend, I knew he was watching only me. A log in the fire shifted, sending up sparks. It threw shadows across the room and whimsical cloth of the magnificent four-posted bed.

"France…." Scotland's deep timber rumbled like low thunder across the highlands. His hands moved up my arms to rest on my shoulders and I leaned back into him, putting my hands over his.

"Mmmm?" I questioned. I tilted my head back and sideways to look at his profile. He was ruggedly beautiful, somehow both fair and weathered at the same time. And reassuringly solid after his latest war. I closed my eyes and breathed in his scent of warmth, wild grasses and saltwater.

When I opened my eyes again, his were looking at me hungrily. The firelight played tricks with their green hue, so they were both dark like the ocean and light like spring foliage. For a moment, I believed in the old Celtic magic again.

I turned slowly—effortlessly—and our lips met. My hands slid down to his sides, then around his back. The kiss deepened as he cupped the back of my head, his rough hands twining into my ponytail, loosening it unthinkingly. We pressed together, all heat and want. I _needed_ Scotland. Everyone else came and went, betraying me as they saw fit, but Scotland… _mon Ècosse_… he needed me just as much as I needed him.

With simple ease, he lifted me up and carried me to the bed. The curtains parted and we tumbled down into softness.

* * *

*In this story, his human name is François, as that is the French equivalent of the English Francis. To me, it seems strange if his name is Anglicized for a story told from his perspective.

_Thank you for reading and feel free to comment. My recent forays into cosplaying France has led me inevitably to researching his history and as such, you have A Hundred Years of War. I am doing about twice as much research as I am writing, so everything you read-from descriptions of kings, distances between places, and most dates-is historically accurate. (No seriously, I love history and as a teacher, I think this would be an excellent study aid.) Where no information is readily available, I have used some creative license to fill in the gaps. Of course, the country of France isn't personified, so his actions are entirely of my own making. Please note that I intend to follow historical fact more than Hetalian canon and fandom if there is a conflict, but my hope is that this won't be the case.  
_

_Lastly, I would appreciate critiques based on themes, plot, historical accuracy, my French language skills, and why or why not you found it enjoyable, because these are aspects that will help me write a better story._

_À bientôt~!  
_


	2. Chapitre 2

A Hundred Years of War

Chapitre 2

* * *

The following week was a blur of formal dining and treaty etiquette designed to overwhelm the Scottish dignitaries with the might of France, as well as long elegant nights that I spent with Scotland solidifying our own treaty of sorts. When he left, I felt like it was too soon, and yet I sympathized with his predicament at home. With England on his own private rampage over the last few decades, it was best to not leave the house unattended.

I returned to the countryside and lost myself in my own people. I passed months in the south, in a little village near Toulouse with a sweet dark-haired woman. Her family ran a vineyard, and she helped sell the wine at market and to inns and eating houses in the province. I helped when I could, but mostly I tried to ignore the growing anxiety I felt. It throbbed between my temples at times like a hissing snake and I knew it wouldn't be long before it struck venomous fangs. Queen Isabella had called for French help to overthrow her husband, and in a marvelous coup d'etat had instilled their son on the throne of England instead. The imprisoned former king died in the winter, with whispers of a horrible and premature death. The young boy, Edward III, seemed full of youthful hotheadedness, baited by greedy old men and his plotting mother. Wasn't a young king to mold better than an old one who even his wife wouldn't follow? With both French and English royal blood and the whole of England and a duchy in France under his belt, Edward III would be poisoned with lies of his own greatness, all to manipulate him into giving more treasure to his older accomplices. The poisonous tide of history was sweeping back up the shore, residing only to leave war and torn kingdoms in its wake. In my heart, I knew it was only a matter of time, although I swore I would do my best to keep it at bay.

I returned to the north the following year when Charles, King of France, died. His funeral was the usual pomp and circumstance with the added flair of his pregnant widow throwing doubt on the line of succession. Luckily, the nobility accepted his nephew as regent until the birth: Philip of Valois, who also held the counties of Anjou and Maine. I had met Philip years ago in his youth, and while I had never been pleased with his father, Philip was relatively unknown to me. I kept my distance from him, feeling sick with the unsteady state of affairs. There were those who threw their support to the English King instead of Philip, and the uncertainty was unbalancing. I was torn between hoping the child would be a boy, one that I could give my protection to and that the nobles could all stand behind, and a girl who would be mostly safe from the political intrigue so rampant in the court.

When Charles' widow finally gave birth to a girl, Philip marched triumphantly to Reims for the coronation. I followed the procession, keeping to the back in the stormy May weather, listening to the whispers of the wind. None of the nobility knew I was present, and in my current state of flux, I preferred to keep it that way. It was almost as if I could feel England's presence, with his green eyes watching me cat-like. I celebrated Philip's conversion to Philip VI, King of France with a rowdy crew in a tavern, not missing the stiff ceremony of the nobility.

The next morning, I was horribly, horribly sick.

"_François, mon ami, tu as la gueule de bois encore?"_ It was Jean-Marc, one of my fellow revelers from the night before. He didn't look very steady himself, eyes red and blurry from drink, and with a squint meant to shut out the sun's morning light.

I nodded weakly, lifting my head from where I had unceremoniously vomited into the gutter. Jean-Marc held out a hand, and I took it gratefully. He laughed and pulled me up with a strength I certainly didn't have yet. Somehow, we stumbled our way back to a rickety house together. I wasn't sure who was leaning more on whom for the journey, but I realized immediately why Jean-Marc hadn't wanted to return home alone after a full night out.

The moment we were through the doors, a woman started shrieking at us. Three children of various ages scrambled out from a back room and launched at Jean-Marc with a tangle of limbs. It was obvious that he'd been sorely missed.

"Christ Almighty, where do you think you've been all night?! Children, stop being so underfoot, and let me get at your father!" the woman shouted, shooing the little ones and advancing on the pair of us. "And who is this?" It was most definitely an accusation.

Head throbbing, I still did my best to make a good impression. "_Pardonnez-nous, madame, _it's my fault that Jean-Marc stayed out so late." I smiled my most harmless smile, despite feeling like I'd been run over by a carriage. It was a surprising effort. "I appear to have little head for the local wine. He was looking out for me."

She seemed slightly taken aback by my winning charm, but didn't let it get to her head. Instead, she turned to glare at her husband. "And what exactly were the two of you doing?"

Jean-Marc shifted, adjusting my arm that was still flung over his shoulder. "The king's been crowned, Élisabeth! It doesn't happen so often, you know."

Her eyes narrowed. "Neither does my forgiveness." She turned and huffed away towards the hearth, adding another split log to the fire. It crackled, sending up sparks that mirrored the ones I was beginning to see behind my eyes.

"_Ma chere_," Jean-Marc began, trying to calm her. He shuffled me off onto a bench, and crossed to her, taking her arms. The world was beginning to take on an ethereal quality and I sensed that something was very wrong. _Danger_, the snake hissed, and my head spun.

I woke the next day, Élisabeth's worried face over mine. I sat up nearly instantly, and the rustling of the straw under me drew curious child faces into the doorway.

"Are you feeling better, _monsieur_?" she asked carefully.

I nodded. "Thank you for caring for me. I'm sorry to be a bother."

She looked away, caught a glimpse of the children, and shooed them away with a hand. She didn't return her eyes to my face. "Jean-Marc said you came from Paris with the procession. That you worked in the south with wine, or as a stonemason in Orlèans. But your face… and your hands… show none of it."

I swallowed uncomfortably. "I have done both those things, my dear."

Her face turned back to mine, and I could see the lines of humanity at the corners of her eyes, and traces around her mouth. Her lips were no longer the plump ones of girlhood. "What do you do really? I don't want any lies in this house. Your face and hands belong more to a wealthy background."

"I have been in wealthier places and found I don't prefer them." I watched her eyes carefully, holding them with mine. She seemed compelled to lock my gaze. "A kingdom belongs to all its people, not just his wealthy king. Its earth is just as young as the day it was first turned by humankind."

Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, and I realized my enigmatic explanation was all I was willing to give her. She might figure it out eventually. Maybe.

"Please take my thanks and offer them to your husband as well. I should be going." I rose from the bed, finding my boots next to the straw mattress and began putting them on.

"But…" she started, and then her confusion turned to anger and she resumed the same spiritedness I had seen the day before. "You men! You think you can just say a few meaningless words, and that sets everything right! Well, you best be leaving this house if you're not willing to spare some explanation to its mistress."

I stood, and gave her a broad smile, ignoring her anger completely. "May you and Jean-Marc always be happy."

And then I strode out the door. My headache had lifted, but I knew I was still in danger.

I needed to see Philip.

* * *

Philip was not a bad person as far as kings go. I don't think he remembered me, but when I announced who I was, messengers scurried around and he was willing to see me almost immediately.

"My king," I said upon entering his sitting room, giving him only a short bow of deference. "Congratulations."

Philip smiled, his dark hair framing his face. He seemed almost heavyset, with a weak chin folding into a thick neck. He really would benefit from a beard. His rather prominent nose didn't help the effect, even though his hands had a contrasting delicateness.

"And you are France?" he said curiously. He looked me over for a moment, seeming to reach a decision of some sort. He waved me to a seat opposite him. "Thank you for coming to congratulate me. I believe we will be great for each other."

It was one of the nicest things a King had told me, and I couldn't help my smile stemming from hope. "I hope so," I replied, sitting in a plushy upholstered chair, before getting right to the point, "but I fear not all share my feelings on your coronation."

Philip frowned, looking confused, and then he smiled, leaning forward in his chair. "You speak of Edward of Gascony and the English?"

I nodded slowly. "He will try to take me from you. I can feel it and it makes me sick."

Philip laughed, shaking his head. "But what can he do? He is sworn as vassal to the French crown! And that crown sits upon my head."

I cringed inwardly. "Philip, his father swore, but he has not. It needs to be clear. He needs to fulfill his duties as a Duke himself. Not his father, not his advisors, not anyone but him."

The king seemed taken aback that I used his given name, but recovered well enough. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, and I could see him thinking before he spoke. "Very well. I will call him to account." He looked down his long nose at me. "And you have my thanks for your counsel."

"Of course," I replied gracefully, "it is for the good of the country, is it not?" I stood to leave. He motioned me out with a flourish of his slender hands. His inherited rings of large rubies and emeralds looked clunky on such slim fingers.

I paused at the door, the handle in my grasp. "Oh, and Philip? Grow a beard."

* * *

The king seemed to take my words to heart he arranged for the next year to have the young Edward grudgingly swear his loyalty as the Duke of Gascony. Not only that, but he also grew a tuft of a beard on his chin and even a dark mustache to top it off.

In return, I followed his knights to Flanders, and suited up at the Battle of Cassel to help stem a minor rebellion. I hadn't seen much fighting for years, and so I had to nearly beg the King to give me a horse and heavy armor for my participation. It was with great reluctance that I reminded him that I was a country, not a man, and as such, putting down a rebellion was a much more likely way for me to _survive_, rather than slowly be torn apart. I'm not sure he understood much more than the idea that I was immortal, but he enthusiastically gave me a strong charger and an embellished suit of steel.

After Edward's homage, the next few years passed easily and comfortably. My headache had faded almost immediately. Small squabbles arose between my king and England's, but were discounted easily enough-the two humans seemed to get along rather well. But it was belied by a tension that built, and then held steady between England and me. Several times, I considered writing my blond-haired companion of old a letter, but I couldn't figure out what to say. And then he invaded Scotland again. I despaired that England would ever stop breaking his word.

After much persuasion on my part, Philip relented and Scotland's royal refugees made land on my northern shores. It was a month after they had been established in Normandy at Castle Gaillard, before I visited, mostly out of curiosity.

I never expected to see the shock of red hair fixed over haunted green eyes there.

"_Écosse…?"_ The name fell from my lips. But… what was he doing here?

I wasn't dressed formally, but instead had entered under the guise of a peasant or poorer merchant-farmer. My clothes were plain, as I had been wandering the rolling hills and valleys like a happy vagrant. Scotland didn't look much better off than me, although his clothes had perhaps been finer once. He looked smaller, gaunt in a way that made muscles seem wiry and thin rather than the broad warmth I remembered from our last meeting.

He saw me, and immediately looked down, and I knew he was ashamed of his state. He mumbled something, of which I only caught my name in his heavy brogue. I had already taken several quick steps, but stopped a few paces away yet. I nearly choked, feeling tears prick at my eyes. He was not himself.

Reaching down, I picked up his hand, holding it between my own. It was callused from the sword, and I knew part of him was still fighting back against the English. His heart at least, was not here, even though his fight for independence was failing. Without thinking, I pressed his hand to my chest, the gesture startling him into looking at me. His lovely, lovely eyes were bare.

I spoke fiercely, my tears turning to barely-controlled and whispered anger. "I swear to you, I will get you back home, whatever it takes. I will not let you be alone, and I will not let anyone refuse our agreement, be it King or even God Himself. Tonight, we ride for Paris, and afterwards….

"…if he touches you again, I will cut off England's poisonous hands myself."

* * *

_As always, thanks for reading. Ah, France has a serious and deadly streak! How different things were back in the early 1300s~~. Please leave a review!  
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	3. Chapitre 3

A Hundred Years of War

Chapitre 3

* * *

Rage was still burning in my heart when I sent Scotland home. I argued with my king for days before I made progress, and Philip agreed to discuss the 'Scottish situation' as he called it with Edward III. Philip wanted to avoid open warfare, but at this point, I was too angry to be civil with England's people any longer.

I had never been too involved in court, but I threw myself into it heedlessly. Dressed in all the finery allowed by Philip, I attended fêtes all around the city, and worked my charm on women and men alike. I slipped into council meetings and whispered of England's dark ambitions and reminded everyone that Scotland's security meant our own. No one liked fighting two wars at once. As long as we had an ally in Scotland to England's back, he wouldn't dare start a war with me. I pressed the importance of our alliance not only to Philip, but also his council when Philip was absent.

The machinations of politics moved too slowly for me. I acquisitioned trade ships, filled them with armor, then hid the weaponry underneath caskets of wine. These, I sent to Scotland, while Philip managed to envoy a few clueless men to talk a lot of nothing at Edward. I wasn't impressed with his diplomacy, and could feel the rumblings of England laughing at me from his little island. I sensed Philip was being tricked into complacency, but he seemed desperate to avoid a conflict with England.

It was late at night when I rapped on the king's door, holding a piece of paper with a large part drafted in my own hand. I spoke through the door. "It's France."

The door was opened by a boy, Philip's youngest valet. He peered up at me with large, frightened eyes. I ignored him, my eyes roving the room to find Philip sprawled in a large chair. A cold platter of meats and cheeses at his elbow had obviously been sampled, as had a large bottle of red wine. I sniffed. Malbec, from the Loire valley.

I schooled my features smoothly, knowing that my face could give me away if I weren't careful. Philip was watching me, his cheeks ruddy. I smiled and bowed slightly as I was accustomed to doing in his presence. I had been near him many times, but we were never close as if holding each other at a great distance.

"I met with the Council today," I began, slipping forward easily into the chair opposite the man. He had grown a bit heavier the last few months, and I could smell he was very close to being, if not completely, drunk. _Parfait._ "We approved a few things that need your royal signature and seal. Mostly taxes."

Philip leaned over the table, his elegant hands clumsy as he reached for a quill. A fork clattered off the table. "Nuisance," he muttered, wetting the feathery instrument with ink, and then the king fixed his dark eyes on me. "For such small things… I don't see why I bother… as long as it's money coming in, it should just go to the treasury… don't you think?"

I slid the paper across the table to him, my eyes never leaving his. "A king should always be aware of the state of his country, no matter how small a matter."

My words hung in the air, but Philip didn't heed them. It was a subtle warning, one I hoped he would remember tomorrow when it became clear what I had done. The quill scratched his name into a blank space at the bottom of the page, and I offered him a small block of sealing wax. Without ceremony, he melted it onto an empty corner and pressed his fist into it, a ring on his middle finger making an uneven indentation. He slid it back to me, and found his goblet of wine, taking a drink.

"Won't you join me tonight, France?" he asked generously. "Everyone needs a break sometimes."

I shook my head, my blond waves striking in the candlelight, and collected the signed document. "Maybe another time, my king," I responded, standing with a cool smile. "Thank you for the offer."

Philip nodded me out of the room, his young valet taking care of the doors. Like a proper member of the nobility, I didn't even look at him this time. My only goal was to relay the news to a select group of lordlings. They would, in turn, pass it to their knights and serfs. The knights would bring their own followers, and whatever men still needed would be plucked from the fields.

With a grim smile, I wondered how long it would take Philip to realize he had 6,000 soldiers on their way to Scotland. I left the _Palais de la Cité _and strode into the evening air; my smile hardened. Next time, the King of France would surely read what his country handed him.

If there was a next time. I too, after all, was going to Scotland.

* * *

Over the course of the next few summer days, even as I hid from Philip, a fairly steady stream of pages and messengers circulated the news to my personal quarters in the suburbs. I was preparing myself to ship off, packing and double-checking everything, and anxious for the rest of our force to be ready. My king, once realizing what I'd done, had written to Edward, telling him of the force, and trying to fall back on making the Scots seem so pathetic as to have begged for us to follow our treaty. I was outraged by his treachery. What friendship had we truly with England? I didn't care if the kings were cousins—I had once seen England himself as a younger brother and still my hatred burned. Philip was fooling himself if he thought the English king was a friend. It was with pleasure that I heard their rumored joint Crusade was falling apart before it began, Edward sending ambassadors again and again to test the waters at Philip's court about venturing to the Holy Land. In seeming desperation, Philip wrote next to the Pope himself, hoping holy judgment would clear him from scandal and provide him answers.

I prayed for war and when it was clear Scotland did not have the Pope's blessing, I simply reminded myself of my previous vows. Not even God would stop me, blasphemous as my words were. If anything, the Pope's disavowal made me hunger to rip England apart more, without having to bother with Catholic mercy. My forces hurried with our preparations: ships needed to be commandeered and outfitted for war, which I found unbearably time-consuming.

News arrived for me from Scotland with the ever-rising number of exiled Scotchmen who joined our midst. England and Edward had set up fortifications in Perth, and were laying waste to the surrounding Scottish countryside. Scotland feared he wouldn't last much longer, and worried of being prisoner in England's house. I feared it too, thinking his dreary castles more like dungeons, and pressed the men faster than perhaps we should have. I riled them up with talk of long-ago victories against England, of a time when England was clearly sworn to the French crown and respected our treaties.

But I didn't want to posses him, no, not like I once had in those times that seemed so far off now. I felt little in common with this little brother after what he had done to Scotland, my red-haired ally. This time, I wanted to ruin him and burn his fields and raze his townships. I wanted to lay siege to his little island, and come as close as I dared to sinking it into the cold Atlantic. Because I didn't want England to die—no, never, though I dared not perhaps admit to all the reasons why—but I wanted him to _suffer_.

August was hot, the air humid and salty at the port. Most of our vessels were outfitted now with fore- and aft-castles, no longer the simple merchant ships they once were. We might be on our way as soon as the next day, and so I sat, waiting and watching as the carpenters hammered and sawed their way to war.

Scotland's latest letter was in my hand. I'd read it that morning, his words sloppy as if he'd had so little time. Considering the contents, I imagined that it was true. Scotland had lost his best man, captured by the English in a border skirmish. He was left with two men, one too young and one too unreliable, and little hope. He never begged nor pleaded for help, but I ached to bring it to him nonetheless. A seabird called over my head, bringing me back to the present moment and a pair of grey eyes watching me.

I had no idea how long the boy had been watching me. His head was a mop of mousy brown hair, and he seemed to wake out of a stupor as I turned to face him.

"Sir?" he asked neatly, "Are you the one they call France?"

I nodded, hiding my frown from him. I looked him over carefully, taking in his dusty clothes and lack of hat. The boy was merely a messenger, a boy who needed a shiny coin, but whoever owned that coin was looking for me.

"If it pleases you, you're to go to the castle to see the prince, sir," he stated carefully, his voice measured with the formal '_vous_.' His soft grey eyes watched me with a child's open curiosity. I wondered what I looked like to him as he continued, "The lord's man said there was important news for you."

I stood then, casting one long glance back at the almost finished war ships. I folded up Scotland's letter and slipped it into my doublet. "Very well. Show me."

The boy genuflected deftly, and spun on his bare heels. I followed him inside the city walls, and down the twisting streets, the hot sun making me sweat now that I no longer had the occasional ocean breeze on my face. Once or twice, the boy checked back to see if I was still behind him, a lingering question in his eyes.

Ever since I had met Scotland in Castle Gaillard, I'd been so focused on saving him, I hadn't realized that I'd been neglecting the vast majority of my own people. I'd needed to infiltrate and sway the mood of the King, his nobles, his chancellor, and his most esteemed lords and knights. I had never been so involved with politics before, preferring to roam the country and playing a more common, yet minor role.

The boy glanced over his shoulder at me again, watching.

I stopped walking, waving him back. He pattered up, the slightest of frowns crossing his face. "Boy," I started, leaning down into a crouch that put us eye-to-eye, "Do you know who I am?"

The boy swallowed, and I immediately realized my question had startled him. Of course he didn't recognize me personally, but in my current state of fine dress, he must feel as if he should. He nodded carefully, as if he thought he was answering a trick question, "They said I should find the one called France…."

I nodded, smiling in reassurance. "And you have. I can see a question in your eyes. I promise that if you ask it, I will not be upset."

The boy bit his lip. "Sir, I'm afraid it is either disrespectful or not something for my ears…."

"Nonsense," I replied, waving off his concerns. "If you have a question, go ahead and ask. I suspect I already know what it is, but I can't answer if you don't ask."

He seemed to consider my words carefully, his grey eyes staring into mine before deciding he could trust me. "Sir, why do they call you France?"

"Ah," I began, fighting the urge to ruffle the boy's hair. He was all grave seriousness. "That's because I am. Anything that happens to this country, happens also to me. Once, a long, long time ago, I was born from the idea that this place was separate, was special from other places. I've changed a lot since then, but it is not too unlike growing up as a human."

The boy looked torn between skepticism and awe. "So… you're the land?"

I nodded, holding eye contact. "But more than just the land, you see. Also the rivers, lakes, and beaches; the culture, the language, the fiefs, and the politics. I am the kingdom."

The boy frowned. "You don't _look_ like a beach."

I laughed then, reaching out to hold the boy's hand and draw him closer. "I don't? Can't you see the ocean waves in my eyes? The sand is always getting in my hair, you know."

The boy's eyes widened, and I knew he saw it. I could feel the stir of something magical in the air, the effect of my willing the warm southern beaches into the moment. The soothing repetition of cresting waves echoed from my lips. He laughed, wonder written across his face... despite everything, I _was _a beach. And cliffs, and vineyards, and snow, and everything this boy's world encompassed. I scooped him up as if he were my own child; in a way, he was, just as every Frenchman was. The boy wasn't afraid, instead wrapping a steady arm over my shoulder and pointing ahead down the road with the other.

"Onward then?" I asked, grinning back.

He nodded vigorously. "Onward!"

"Aye-aye, captain," I replied succinctly, and we resumed our walk, his bare feet no longer touching the road.

After much fun in pointing and playing our way, we reached the castle gateway amid strange looks from passersby. Normally, those that looked like knights didn't pick up stray waifs and carry them around. I set the boy down gracefully on the cobblestones, hurriedly brushing away the déjà-vu feeling of merrily setting down another small child—but with green eyes and blond hair. The vision rattle me, and I strained after the stress-free happiness of the moments just before. The boy smiled up at me, and then stepped forward to the man waiting for us. He seemed confused by our method of arrival like most everyone else.

Nonetheless, under my watchful gaze, the promised coin was delivered. The boy turned back towards me, almost skipping in delight, mousy brown hair flopping, and then slipped right past. I watched him go.

The man cleared his throat, and I turned back towards him, getting straight down to business. "The lord wishes to speak with me?"

"Yes, please follow me." He turned, and led me through the door into the interior of the castle's walls. We crossed the courtyard quickly, then slipped through several more rooms before we entered a small-ish chamber. The air was hot and stuffy from the August heat and burning candles. Several men sat around a small table, but the best dressed—immediately, I knew he was the lord of the castle—dismissed the others as I entered.

"Jean, wait outside," the castellan instructed the man who had led me. The door closed loudly behind him, echoing into the now still room. The man stood, his fingers trailing the wood of the table. His eyes were dark, almost black, and the candlelight gave them a strange flickering intensity.

"Welcome," he said, his tone carefully schooled as if he'd practiced. "When His Majesty King Philip sent me a missive that you were here in Calais, I was shocked. He explained carefully in the letter who—or rather, what—you are, and revealed his plans to me."

He continued around the table, leaning against it with the small of his back once he'd reached the side closest to me. His clothes were very fine, the soft wool of his long jerkin a brilliant red with embroidery that may have contained gold. I brought my eyes back to the man's face; he seemed to be mid-thirties, his face weathered and lined by the winds through the straights. Dark hair matched his eyes, contrasting sharply with the brilliant red of his clothes. I wasn't sure what to make of him just yet, although I was beginning to feel a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I nodded once, carefully, and waited for him to continue.

"I had no idea that a kingdom had the shape of a man, you see." The man was watching me avidly, and I sensed his greed with a sick feeling. What had Philip told him? Was this man planning to go against the king for his own gain? I tried not to inch towards the door, and held my ground.

"And now that you know, what is Philip's message?" I asked, using Philip's name intimately to demonstrate my position was well above his.

The man smiled, standing up from his leaning position to advance towards me. "Only that I give you the best hospitality here in Calais. It is His Majesty's express order that you be taken in with the most care and kept safe." He was eyeing me like some kind of novelty in a shop, or a stray dog that might bite.

"I thank you for your hospitality," I replied evenly, "but I have no desire to intrude, and indeed, I'll be sailing to Scotland very shortly."

"Oh, but you should stay for dinner this evening at least." The castellan moved around me like oil in the sea, although his eyes were still locked on my person. I doubted he could see the sand in my hair without my assistance and desire, but I could tell he was searching for something that would mark me as other than human. I turned to watch him, meeting his dark eyes for a moment as they flicked up to my face.

"Very well," I relented, although my tone carried my intention of not enjoying it. "Dinner will fulfill Philip's order to you."

In his fluid way, the lord had already moved to the door. He opened it outwards no more than necessary, the heavy wood creaking under its own weight. "Yes, as the King wishes." He paused, eyeing me another long moment. "I will have dinner brought up to you, then, _France_."

His meaning became clear in an instant and I leapt towards the door. "No!" I cried, but the man had slipped through the crack, and the door was slammed shut in my face. A lock clicked resoundingly like the toll of a death bell. I pushed against the wood, but my strength was no match for the massive bolt I heard sliding into place. It thumped against the door, and the oaken structure rattled once in response, before quiet surrounded me.

I sank to the floor, my knees against the cold stone floor. My head bowed, forehead pressed to the door. _Touché_, _Phillippe_, I thought. If I could deceive my king, than so could he betray me. I was beginning to crumble just as I was hoping to rise in triumph. The war with England was going to commence soon, and I… was divided. If my own king had to hold me back, then I was clearly out of touch with my leadership. How could I have forgotten? I was the ship, always the ship, never the captain…

…and certainly not a knight, crossing the Channel, to fight alongside Scotchmen.

I pulled Scotland's letter out of my clothes from where it had lain so close to my heart. Tears slipped from my eyes, making silent tracks down my cheeks. In my mind's eye, I watched the warships sail from the port of Calais, leaving without me.

* * *

_Here's the usual 'thanks for reading/please leave a review.' Personally, I'm not too sure about the usage of Scottish/Scotch/Scotchmen/Scots, as they seemed to be mostly interchangeable in my readings. I believe 'Scotch' is an older form, and less likely to be used nowadays simply to distinguish the people from the drink. Anyone else have reliable info?_


	4. Chapitre 4

A Hundred Years of War

Chapitre 4

* * *

I wasn't released until word returned that the French-Scotch force I had mustered had been destroyed. The English were waiting, courtesy of a note from Philip, and a barricade of their ships sank the majority of ours. Of the few that slipped through at the Solent and tried desperately to land at Southhampton, I was told they were killed almost as soon as they set foot on English territory.

I raced to Paris, my heart and head in turmoil. I wasn't sure my actions had been correct, but then I couldn't believe Philip's had been dutiful either. I was also scared to sickness that my disloyalty to the king had prompted the death or capture of the six thousand soldiers in retaliation. Had I caused their deaths? Soldiers or no, they had been led into a trap across the Channel just as much as I had found in the fortified tower of Calais. The lines were blurring around me of friend and foe, and I wasn't sure what I should be doing. I felt like I was being torn into two directions, and was sure that it foreshadowed something impossibly dark and twisted that God—or perhaps Satan—was pulling me down, down, down into a place I didn't want to go. It would have been easier not to care which way I should go.

At the _Châteaux de Vicennes_, Philip's renovated hunting lodge and latest residence, I nearly sank off my exhausted horse. The ground swam around me, the same way his rhythmic strides had rocked me along the road. I wanted to lie down and melt into the ground, wishing for a moment that I was only inanimate dirt and that I wasn't so close to being human. My life seemed a sick joke, and I was so weary of it.

But the king was ready to see me as soon as I arrived. I pulled myself together, nodded to the servant who took my horse away. The animal's head drooped close to the street, his footfalls slow and melodic.

Once inside the doors, I was ushered silently to the king's chambers, and indeed, right into his bedroom. Philip was sitting upright in his bed, a book in his hand, and a candle burning brightly on a night table. He ignored my escort and me perfectly as we entered, licking a finger to turn a page as the servant slipped quietly out of the room. The door closed softly, and the silence was only broken by the fire in the hearth. I swallowed uncertainly. Still, Philip ignored me standing at his doorway. I moved forward, feeling wretched that he wouldn't look at me. I was his kingdom….

To my utter dismay, I stumbled, tripping over a woven carpet, and fell to my knees. My hands fisted into the fibers, and I stared down. I couldn't possibly waste the energy to stand any more.

"France," a voice spoke gently above me. I didn't want to look up, but something drew my tired eyes up. I saw Philip then through my golden bangs. He looked old, his eyes sad and drawn. A tear slipped down my cheek, unbidden. I was tired of trying to be something I wasn't.

"I'm sorry, my king," I choked out, my head bowing down again. I heard the book close, the thick volume heavy as it was set aside on the table.

"I am sorry as well," Philip replied, "I would like to keep you in my confidence from now on. I don't want secrets between us; we need to stay of one mind or I fear…."

I looked up again as he trailed off. His eyes were distant as if he could see the future. I felt a chill run through me. Philip suddenly was back in the present, his eyes focused and urgent.

"We are on the brink of a war that we are not ready for. Do you understand?"

I swallowed uncomfortably, and sat back on my heels. My own voice sounded small to me after his deep tones. "It would be better to fight while England is still focused on Scotland…."

Philip shook his head, his dark hair waving and slipping around his ears. "No," he answered heavily. "You speak of England and Scotland, but it is only Edward that matters. He wrote to me, after I offered arbitration in the Scottish predicament."

I kept silent. I had been unaware that Philip had proposed a peaceful settlement.

"He refused. He already calls Scotland his, and one Edward Balloil is its king, already sworn in homage to the English."

I opened my mouth to argue; I knew none of the Scotsmen really followed this pretender, but Philip raised a slender hand to stop my tirade before it began. His pale finger waved over my head. "You must understand, France, the similarities. He pointedly reminded me in his letter that he is my vassal and cousin… that my offer was offensive especially as I had sided with the Scotch thus far. He calls it an internal affair, one between him and his vassals only, and wishes to pursue the crusade still."

I bit my lip. "But we have a treaty with Scotland. Can we simply ignore that? Do Frenchman now abandon their friends and allies?"

"Edward is bound closer than a treaty, through blood and homage. We have aided the Scotch as much as we can at the moment, but…" and here he smiled sadly, "I have to do what is best for the kingdom. We are not ready for open war. I am doing this for you, France."

My brow wrinkled as I pondered his words. It made sense, yet… I still didn't believe we could trust England. He wasn't the child-like island nation that I remembered from the Norman conquests, the one who was like a wild Scandinavian child infused with the older druidic magic that not even the Roman Empire could squash completely. England was cruel, yet retained a bright intelligence in his green eyes. He was dangerous.

I hesitated, unsure. I let out a slow breath, the cool wind that brushed the leafy vines across Champagne. That was all I was; the land, the wind, the lakes, the vineyards… I was not the king. The dirt, the inanimate mountains with their steep chill. I was only the kingdom, and it was someone else's responsibility to protect me. I relaxed slightly, letting the decision no longer be mine. I had to trust in my captain to guide me safely to harbor. He wanted to keep me. I could believe in that, if nothing else.

"Thank you, my king."

* * *

I fled Paris, leaving the lights of the city and I pushed myself to feel nothing like the air around me. I was the air, was I not? Winter settled in slowly, and I was just as cold. I ignored politics, keeping Philip informed of my wandering locations, but refusing him to forward me any letters that came for me. I wanted to disappear and become nothing more than the cold winter. If I couldn't change Scotland's fate, then I didn't want to hear of it.

It was the spring of 1336 that drew me out of nearly six months of apathy. Philip summoned me to Marseilles, one of the strongest of my southern ports. As I entered the city, the walls surrounding me, I could see the preparations for the Crusade. A massive contingent of our navy was anchored at the harbor, their masts waving like trees in an gentle earthquake. Feeling no urgency, I sat on the docks watching them as the afternoon waned into evening.

Eventually, I circled the narrow harbor, my feet carrying me away from the city center and to the castle on the hill. I kept close to the sea, the fishing boats landing with the setting sun, and I stayed within the walled town until it was a straight shot to the citadel. The sinking sun made the pale grey stone turn yellow and orange, and my path grew hazy with dark as I climbed up through orchards and fields.

When I arrived unceremoniously, Philip was at dinner and immediately a place was prepared for me. I was allowed a room to freshen up and change clothes in, as I was entirely unpresentable in my traveling clothes. I rinsed my hands and face in the cool water, and brushed out my hair, letting it lay in waves without tying it back.

He set me at his right hand, a place of honor, and I was touched with a melancholic happiness that he had forced his other guests to shift down for me.

"France, so good to see you," Philip said, and I believed him. He was energetic and his dark eyes searched my face for signs of my health. I kissed his graceful hand, my lips brushing his knuckles that were surprisingly warm. I released his hand, and then he gestured and my chair was pulled back for me to sit. The rest of the guests were still on their soup, and a fresh bowl of bouillabaisse was laid out before me. I don't think Philip was aware that I didn't need the same kind of nutrition that humans did, but I ate with pleasure regardless. It was delicious, with every kind of seafood the Mediterranean had to offer. I felt myself warming up at the kindness more than the soup.

Philip leaned towards me amidst the conversation that floated around us. The local lords of Marseilles were discussing a particularly profitable trade route and some rumored beauty that graced the teeming city.

"France," the king whispered, but not so quiet as to be obvious. He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes were hard. "The Crusade is cancelled."

I nearly dropped my spoon. A round of laughter rose from the rest of the table, but I knew they weren't paying us any attention. I glanced sideways at the king. He was leaning back into his chair and staring down the table as it stretched away from him, and adding a laugh that made it seem as if he'd been careful of the other conversation.

He turned then, full of jovial laughter that I felt was fake. I didn't have his skill, but realized I could learn from him. Philip put a hand on my shoulder, shaking me slightly. He was closer again, his hair nearly mixing with mine, black and gold. "Come with me north. We're taking the navy with us."

I swallowed, recovering my movements only slightly as I digested his words and my fish. I spoke slowly and quietly under the hum of the table's occupants, "Surely, we will be noticed…?"

"Edward doesn't know the Crusade is cancelled yet. The Pope summoned me for a private interview. I've only just returned from Avignon." The king paused for a few mouthfuls of soup, his eyes darting around the men and women at his table. "I thought about what you said about keeping the English busy on both fronts. Their truce with Scotland ends in mid-April."

He must have seen the surge of hope in my blue eyes. "So… will we…?" I trailed off, unable to put words to the possibilities spinning around in my head. My heart pounded, a force I had tried to push away, and now reminded me that I had actually been alive these past few months despite my efforts.

He nodded. "We do not put words to it yet, but the Pope is too occupied with the Holy Roman Empire, Aragon, Naples, Sicily… he does not care for our kingdom, despite being born French. His eyes are elsewhere, but I know where your heart lies."

I froze, and I felt tears prick my eyes. I dared not breath. The king carefully took my hand from my lap. I didn't know when I had set down my spoon. "We are French. We honor our agreements."

Philip brought his lips to my hand, an act no king had ever shown me, and returned the kiss I had given him. He still felt amazingly warm to my coldness, but I knew I was beginning to thaw. While I had given up against him last fall, I now gave in. He had won me over with a subtle kindness, a perceiving where no king had taken the time to really see me. To my wonderful king, I was simultaneously France and François, one and the same, a duality that I had thought only other nations understood. He had been trying to understand me since I had betrayed him, and I had ignored his attempts and his grace. I had ignored his calculating political intelligence as well as his genuine smile.

It felt like the long winter was melting all at once. I smiled, my eyes filling with tears that I couldn't let fall, and I gripped his hand like a lifeline. We understood each other, and at that moment, his concern for my personal feelings outshone my happiness that he had resolved to rescue Scotland, even though they were intricately tied in the web of my heart.

"_Merci, Philippe_. _Merci._" Even though the words were so similar to the ones I'd spoken from the floor of his bedchamber last autumn, I meant them this time.

* * *

Philip and I had agreed to meet in Lyons for Easter. His larger retinue would take the overland route, while I would stay with the navy until it circled Spanish territories. Being France, I could deal directly with any of Spain's little kingdoms that might be overexcited at the sight of the French navy. Being one person, I could move quickly across the countryside and sleep where I may. Before Philip left, we engaged in a mock battle, firing oranges as cannon fodder, and drinking the juice of the ones we thought looked best. We laughed together, king and kingdom, and then I sailed out of Marseilles amidst the bobbing orange peels and the smell of their fruit.

I was in high spirits throughout the journey, despite constant poor weather. I think I infected the sailors with my maddening glee and I must have boarded every ship and climbed every piece of rigging as we skirted the Iberian Peninsula as quickly as we could. On the few days of calm, I tied ropes around some willing sailors and taught them how to tread water. They didn't know what to do other than love me. When we parted company at Bordeaux, I was given a rousing cheer and we made promises to meet again. They would continue on at a slower pace, so as to arrive fresh and ready on the Channel.

Two fresh horses were waiting for me, and under a week later, I was in Lyons at the beginning of Holy Week. Philip took care of everything, shielding me from other lords that I had avoided and slighted during the last few months, so I could simply enjoy myself. We held mass each day in the unfinished, but still elaborate _Cathédrale Saint Jean-Baptiste, _which culminated in a sumptuous Easter feast. I prayed for Philip, asking God selfishly to let me keep him for a long time. And for Scotland, who I knew was still fighting against England in desperation.

It was the day after when Philip invited me to his meeting with a delegation from Scotland. Sheltered as I had been during the week, I hadn't even known they were there, yet I think it was more for my benefit than theirs that he promised our aid so clearly. We had only five weeks before the temporary truce between England and Scotland would expire. Philip was careful not to promise anything specific, but I knew that our naval warships were on their way to the Channel. They wouldn't make it before the truce ran out, but we pushed them to ask for an extension despite knowing that the English were unlikely to give it now that the season for war was approaching.

After Easter, we returned to Paris with the beginning of summer, finally reuniting with the Royal Council and Philip's expecting Queen. Philip was leaving letters unanswered from Edward, and I exchanged messages with Scotland. He was hanging on, and wrote that my words gave him heart. He also wrote of England, whom he had seen much of recently, and that my silence about the possible war with him was driving him mad. I listened to Philip's counsel and didn't give Scotland clues about what exactly we were planning, keeping my real words hidden between the lines, in case they fell into English hands.

In July, we took back most of Gascony, Philip using a political trick with the Parlement of Paris judging in favor of the Sire de Navailles, who had been suing Edward III for damages. The reason was unimportant, but in place of coinage, we seized back territory from his holdings on my western side. It felt horribly good, and with Edward so far away in England, there was little he could do to influence the outcome.

But as if in retaliation, England's attack on Scotland intensified. He burned cities, occasionally stopping just short of a church and leaving it the sole monument standing. Many times, however, nothing was left but charred rubble. He methodically slaughtered livestock and burnt crops as far as he could reach. He circled Aberdeen, finally descending upon the city from the north like a hawk, and spent a full day burning the town, and then demolished everything that wouldn't burn. Scotland wrote of valleys filled with smoke and a madman who razed churches full of cowering congregations. Nothing was sacred anymore, and noncombatant lives were thrown aside in England's bloody conquest. It was as if everything England touched turned to blood or ash.

I could do nothing more than rage and pace Philip's chamber as our fleet hadn't reached the Channel yet, although we had word they would make it within the next week or two. I was itching for a fight, and now that we were so close, I could hardly contain myself.

"If you can't stop stomping around, then perhaps you should go to the Channel yourself," Philip said in mock annoyance, eyeing me carefully with the dark eyes I so loved now. He had been perusing letters and governmental affairs, his posture supremely relaxed, but an ever-present bottle of wine remained untouched.

I stopped, frowning at him a little. He was calculating something, I was sure, although I didn't know what yet. "I should?" I questioned, caught off guard by my own excitement. My heart beat in my ears.

"Yes, I think it's best that you do, France," he replied, his tone measured and his eyes holding mine like a vise. "I hear Edward is beginning to take precautions just in case we mean for war. There is a fleet being rounded up near Portsmouth, but the English ambassadors full of goodwill should already be on their way here…."

I nodded, catching on and replied carefully; I had picked up on the habits of my beloved king. A smile played over my lips. "It seems as if Edward is very unsure of our position."

Philip smiled, his lips curving almost mischievously. "Then we need to clear that up for him and his little kingdom, don't we?"

Our thoughts mirrored perfectly, and I left with no doubt as to what Philip wished of me, as well as with the hope that I could fulfill such obligations well. I had, after all, learned a lot from my king. It was time to put my talents to the test.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Reviews are cool.  
_


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